


Dressing the Baron

by Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon



Series: Undressing, Dressing [2]
Category: Captain America (Comics)
Genre: Bathing, Castle Zemo, Dom/sub, Dressing as a form of intimacy, Gift Fic, Gun Kink, Hydra (Marvel), Inappropriate use of the jacuzzi tub, M/M, Rough Sex, Secret Empire (Marvel), Secret Relationship, This story is filthy don’t read it, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-20 17:56:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18997621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon/pseuds/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon
Summary: *Filthy Bonus Chapter* forUndressing the Captain.





	Dressing the Baron

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MnM_ov_doom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnM_ov_doom/gifts).



> So...SOMEONE...who shall NOT remain nameless (MnM_ov_Doom) wanted just a little more story after reading _Undressing the Captain_... Honestly, I was just imagining writing something light and sweet that hit on more of her kinks (be on the lookout for castles, German sidearms, and heraldric family mottos)... But then THIS happened instead. I think I had a weird out-of-body experience when writing it. Don’t read it, it’s just filth. (Or do! I’m not your mom <3)

“Please!” Zemo begs, his voice strained and quivering as Steven thrusts mercilessly up into him. To say he rides Steven’s cock denotes a certain amount of control and grace, however, those left Zemo ten minutes ago. Now he hangs on for dear life as Steven pistons into him, his fingers digging bruises into Helmut’s hips, his stamina seemingly endless.

“You have your orders,” Steven growls through clenched teeth, and he lifts Zemo up by the waist only to slam him back down. “No touching yourself.”

Zemo lets out a pained moan and clings to the shoulder strap of Steven’s Sam Browne—all that the man wears. His other hand desperately curls into a ball that he holds hard against his thigh to keep from giving into the temptation of stroking himself.

After all, he  _ does  _ have his orders.

Zemo’s hard member bounces futilely, painfully, with each of Steven’s thrusts.

It is too much.

Simply too much.

Outside the open windows, the rain hisses, white noise softening their moans and grunts and cries of pleasure and pain. The cold breeze is only partially blocked out by the deep purple curtains around the groaning bed frame.

It has been raining for days, and they are stuck in a holding pattern. All their preparations are complete, but they cannot make their move until the weather clears. And so, they are trapped here in the Keep with little to do but make love. Or fuck. It depends on the moment, the hour, the Captain’s mood, and Zemo’s, as well.

Steven digs his heels into the mattress and hoists himself upward, holding Zemo aloft, speared on his cock. The Baron clings desperately so as not to be unseated. He clutches the leather belt strap, but still he falls forward, crashing into Steven and kissing him with a whore’s tongue.

He is alive with the feeling of Steven inside of him. And yet, greedy, so greedy. He is insatiable.

“Captain,” he growls into Steven’s ear, surreptitiously rubbing himself against Steven’s stomach, seeking some measure of relief for his aching cock. If he can change the angle just a bit— _ there! _ —he might be able to come. Mad with the passion of the moment, he has no concept of the words he speaks. “ _ Ich...Ich liebe…! _ ”

Steven lays a palm against Helmut’s chest and pushes him back. He takes hold of Zemo and starts to stroke fiercely. The pressure that has been building finally, violently, releases and Helmut shouts with relief, splattering Steven’s chest with his seed and his body clamps down tightly around Steven. 

His Captain snarls a response and comes with one last, mighty thrust, painting Helmut inside.

Zemo trembles, wrung out by the intensity of their mutual completion. When vision and sound return to him, he looks down, blinking.

“Your belt…” he murmurs, his heart pounding and his world spinning.

Steven pulls Zemo in close, seeking his mouth, kissing him, and then his scarred chin, his neck, his shoulders. His kisses are followed by little nips that make Zemo shiver.

“The belt can be cleaned or replaced,” Steven says. “You’re crazy if you think I value a piece of leather over the shape of your mouth when you come.”

They cling to each other for long minutes, sweaty and sticky and so warm wrapped in each other’s arms. The breeze provides cool relief. Steven stays inside Helmut as long as he can, until his cock grows soft and slips free, leaving the Baron gaping, cum leaking out between them.

Zemo is too proud to ever reveal that he delights in the feel of Steven’s seed trickling down his legs. It is messy and uncomfortable, but he loves the reminder that he’s been taken by Steven, marked.

They doze for a while, thunder rumbling its discontent outside the window. And when Zemo awakes, it’s to the feeling of strained muscles and bruised flesh, the dull, contented pain of having been thoroughly used. Steven is no longer beside him when he opens his eyes, and he reaches out to touch the empty space.

It is cool and the damp of sweat and seed is drying. Crusting.

Zemo frowns and rolls over.

The windows have been closed to a crack—letting in sound but not much of the chilling breeze—and there is a fire alive in the fireplace. From the next room over, Helmut can hear the sound of running water.

He is contemplating falling back under sleep’s spell when Steven appears before him, clean, his hair damp, wearing naught but a pair of boxer briefs. His smile is kind and playful, softening the otherwise hard lines of his chiseled face.

He reaches out wordlessly for Helmut, offering his hand. Of course, Zemo accepts, shaking off sleep and climbing out of bed. He does not bother to dress, simply follows Steven toward the sound of running water.

The heated stone flooring of the master bathroom warms Zemo’s toes and he pushes up onto the balls of his feet for a moment, contented.

Zemo Castle has been fitted with many a modern convenience, some at the direction of his father, but many more since Helmut took possession. The bathroom retains the austere facade of the castle—gray stone walls and flooring, lancet-arch doorways, wrought-iron chandeliers hanging from wooden beams, but the tub is brand new. Marble, jacuzzi style, and inset into the floor, it stands half-surrounded by a panel of lighted stained glass.

Though the crest depicted in the glass is as old as the Zemo Family, the piece is newer, the family motto translated from Old High German.

_ Überlegenheit und Heimatland. _

The tub is nearly full as they approach and Steven drops Zemo’s hand to bend and turn off the water. It smells richly of lavender. Helmut takes a moment to admire Steven’s ass in the tight boxer briefs.

As ever, Helmut is fiercely envious of the time they lost, the time stolen by his enemies, time he could have spent admiring his lover’s perfect form. Such needless waste.

Steven motions to the tub and Helmut starts to step inside when he’s stilled by a hand to the chest.

“This,” Steven says, and catches the edges of Zemo’s mask, still rolled up past his lips, and pulls it off his head without pause or permission.

Zemo often gazes on his scarred and hideous visage when he is alone. His face is like melted plastic, mountains and valleys of shining pink skin, warped under Moonstone’s blast. He has never been ashamed of his appearance, instead thinking it gave him a tactical advantage in battle.

_ A scarred Zemo is a vengeful Zemo _ . He remembers the words he spoke to Fixer so long ago.

And yet, he finds he does not like to be revealed so plainly before Steven. He requires no tactical advantage, has no wish to shock or horrify, no cause to remind the Captain of his impending vengeance. It’s times like these that he wonders if he might not take Fixer up on his offer. Surely there’s an advantage to be found in the return of his former good looks. The golden blonde hair, the smooth skin, the sculpted brows.

Steven studies him for a long minute and then leans forward, forcefully capturing his lips in a long kiss that turns deep, seeking. When he pulls back, his eyes are warm.

Whatever Steven sees in Helmut’s face, he is not repulsed, that much is obvious.

Zemo lowers himself into the steaming bathtub, the sweat and juices from their encounter becoming slick once more as he swipes at them with an errant hand. He is surprised when a loofah touches his shoulder, and looks up to find Steven knelt beside the tub.

Silently, he presses Helmut back against the tub’s smooth edge and he gently washes his body, dipping deep to stroke along Zemo’s chest and stomach. Then lower. He’s gentle—gentler than one would imagine possible given his immense physical strength. His movements are tender as he encourages Zemo’s legs apart, washing away their shared ejaculate.

“You do not have to do this, Steven,” he says.

“I know,” Steven replies and he lets go of the loofah that then bobs to the surface. “Lean back a bit further—that’s good. Tilt your hips, Baron.”

“What are you— _ oh! _ ”

Steven’s fingers press against Helmut’s abused hole, gently seeking entry. He groans as they breach him, groans as the hot water that follows stings his tender flesh. Steven’s finger curls up inside of him.

“I want you clean for the next time.”

A moan trembles out from deep within Helmut’s chest as Steven plays a teasing little game with his prostate. Zemo’s cock valiantly attempts a comeback.

“Some of us do not have your Super-Soldier refractory period, Captain,” he laments.

“Oh, I don’t need you hard to take you again.” The words cause another half-hearted twitch. “But I have something different in mind.”

“Oh?”

Steven pulls his finger out and Zemo immediately wishes it was back, wishes to be filled, always. Instead, Steven reaches over and starts the jacuzzi jets, pounding sprays that work at the taut muscles in Zemo’s back and legs. It feels so good that Zemo momentarily slips away.

“I have a new order for you, soldier,” Steven says and Helmut blinks curiously. There’s a devilish gleam in Steven’s blue eyes, some wicked promise.

“What would you have of me, Steven?”

“I’m thinking one of these jets can do a more thorough job of cleaning you out that I can.”

The words hang for a moment, Zemo uncertain what Steven means, and then his eyes widen. He hesitates for only a second and then nods sharply.

“But how should I…?”

“You’re a master tactician,” Steven reminds him. He sits back at the edge of the tub, legs crossed, a look of patience on his face. “Figure it out.”

And at that, the half-hearted twitch of his cock becomes full-blown.

The water is deep and the Jacuzzi sprays at cross angles, rippling and bubbling the surface. Helmut can either turn on his back, legs over the edge of the tub, or he can rise up on his knees, grip the edge, and push back into the spray. He opts for the former, abashed and excited, both.

It takes a moment to get the angle right, to secure himself, digging his heels into the step at the tub’s edge, gripping the rim with one hand. Steven offers no aid, merely watches as Helmut adjusts himself. The water is forced along his back. When he feels confident he is secure, Helmut looks to Steven and smiles a wicked grin of his own.

Then he pushes his hips down.

He is flooded by the sensation, the feeling of being filled, relentlessly pounded by the jet. It forces him open, and he cries out, holding on with all his might while Steven watches placidly from his spot nearby.

There are no half-measures now, he is fully erect, hard, needful as the spray holds him open, cleans him out, ravishes him the way Steven ravished him earlier. He doesn’t realize he’s been making deep, wanton noises until Steven says, his voice low and rumbling, “I love the sounds you make.”

Eagerly, Helmut grapples for his cock with his free hand.

“Steven…” He can’t quite make words. Steven anticipates his needs and reaches over, grabbing a bottle of body wash and casually pouring it over Helmut’s straining member and fist. The relief Helmut feels is instantaneous as he strokes.

This will be the third time he’s come today, and teasing out his orgasm proves challenging, despite the insane and overwhelming sensations of being taken by the jet’s spray. It’s so much.  _ Too much. _

It would be better if Steven were involved, better to have  _ his hand _ , but his Captain seems content to just watch and wait, crooning quietly about how  _ fantastic  _ Helmut looks and what a  _ good  _ job he’s doing.

_ That’s right, Helmut, pretend it’s me inside you. _

His ass is going numb from the pressure and Zemo adjusts to get a new angle that— _ Nng! _ —fills him even more completely. He strokes fast and furious along the length of his member, the body wash sudsing, water lapping over his tense stomach.

“Come for me, Baron.”

Steven’s voice is so low that Helmut isn’t sure if he’s imagining the words or not. But they work,  _ Gottverdammt  _ how they work. He holds position as he ejaculates far less semen than before, but the orgasm is every bit as powerful. He stays in the spray as long as he can, until the sensation becomes too intense, and he lets go.

Lets go of the edge. Lets go of his cock. Lets go of his grip on the world. His whole body is light and he’s pushed back by the spray, flotsam on the waves.

Steven cuts the jets and leaves Helmut to float in the water for long minutes. Then he stands and disappears and Helmut can’t bring himself to care about anything because the orgasm has left him weightless and unburdened.

Only when Steven returns, towel in hand, does Helmut recognize the world again.

Reluctantly he rights himself in the water, even more reluctantly, he pulls himself from its depths. As he steps onto the bathmat, Steven immediately envelops him in the towel, rubbing his body down with care, tenderly drying his face, careful around his ass and his cock,

“We don’t have a lot of time,” Steven says. He picks up Helmut’s discarded mask.

The Captain leads Helmut back to the master bedroom, slowly gathering clothing he’d torn from Zemo’s body an hour ago and draping it over one arm. He tosses it onto the bed and then heads for the dresser, finding new underwear.

“Since you came in the first pair,” he reminds Helmut who can’t help but smile at the memory of rutting against Steven at breakfast, and then being forced to wear the mess until their liaison this afternoon.

Outside the window, the thunder booms, their erstwhile jailer rattling the bars of their cage.

Steven bends down and guides Helmut into the underwear, slowly pulling them up his legs. His fingers trail Helmut’s thighs and he takes an interminably long time to reach his destination. It makes Helmut tremble inside. 

Steven stands and considers the clothing on the four-poster bed. He grabs the under armor, ribbed and purple and beckons Helmut closer.

“Arms up,” he commands, and Helmut obeys. Always.

He slips the form-fitting fabric over Helmut’s body, smoothing it unnecessarily as he does, feeling Helmut’s chest through the material. Then he picks up Helmut’s leathers, sniffs them and makes a face before tossing them back down. And so he goes this time to the wardrobe, so intimately familiar with this room, and pulls open its engraved double doors, revealing a world of clothing. Armor and not. He chooses a new pair of leather trousers and returns to Helmut.

“Step,” he says.

This time as he slides the clothing up Helmut’s taut thighs, his hands are forceful, probing. He stops at intervals to dig his fingers into the muscled flesh, to knead it. He gropes Zemo’s abused ass as he pulls the leather up, and takes special care in the arrangement of Helmut’s tender groin.

Next comes the surcoat, thick and heavy. He grins as he pulls it down over Helmut’s body and Zemo watches in wonder, and experiences the thrill of being dressed by the man he so admires. Steven offers Helmut his gloves, which Helmut pulls on while Steven acquires his shoulder holsters, still loaded.

He wraps Zemo’s belt around his waist, buckling it in place, and pulls forth the P08 Luger from the paratrooper holster at his hip. Of course, Helmut also has a Mauser-made model, but there is something special about this gun—something beyond the custom leopard-spotted grip. His father once held this gun, once trained it on the False Captain, once took a shot and missed. And should the bastard ever appear again, Helmut will not hesitate to use it against him.  _ He _ will  _ not  _ miss.

Steven gently traces the barrel, his fingers intimate against the cold metal, he caresses the iron sights. Helmut watches through half-lidded eyes, moved by the loving care Steven shows his weapon, watches as Steven lifts it to his lips, kissing the trigger.

“For luck,” he says with a mischievous smile, and Helmut dies and is reborn. Steven replaces the Luger.

Steven brings Helmut his boots, teasing the leather with his fingertips as he pulls on the tongue to make room for Helmut’s foot. He laces them tightly, knotting them, and then stepping back to admire his work, he nods.

All that is left now is the mask and crown. And this, Steven takes the most time with, holding the fabric in his fist and leaning down to plant kisses along Zemo’s scarred face.

“You are my everything,” he murmurs warmly against Helmut’s cheek. How he wishes he had more sensation, how he wishes he could feel Steven’s kisses as more than just pressure.

The captain slips the fabric over Zemo’s head, tucking it carefully into the under armor. And then he lifts the golden crown from the side-table, lowering it over Zemo’s brow as if it was his Coronation Day.  _ Today, I am Baron. _

Helmut lets out a long breath he didn’t realize he was holding, thrilling at the feeling of being so intimately dressed.

“Let me help you into your clothing,” Helmut insists, but Steven shakes his head. 

“Not today, Helmut. You can watch.”

And so Helmut does, attention rapt, as Steven pulls on the uniform Helmut so neatly folded for him. He is eternally beautiful in his Hydra Greens. Breathtaking. Indeed, no person has ever looked as perfect. The color complements his skin tone and golden blonde hair. He ends with the Sam Browne, pristine after being wiped down, and Helmut hums in approval. He is regal and powerful, every bit the leader their cause deserves.

* * *

As they walk down the hall toward the stairs, Helmut all-too conscious of his own slightly broken gait, Steven says casually, “So I’m wondering…”

“Yes?”

“Do you remember what you said earlier?"

Zemo remembers many things, and nothing at all. He’s cleared of thought. He shakes his head. “You will have to be more specific, Captain.”

“In bed. You said  _ Ich liebe _ … and then broke off.”

Under the mask Helmut’s face burns with the memory of it. He did… He let slip those precious words he’s been guarding for so long. He opens his mouth, excuses on the tip of his tongue. No, it isn’t what Steven thinks. He’d meant  _ Ich liebe…dich neckt.  _ I love you naked.

But the truth hangs half-spoken between them and Helmut is unsure whether to press forward or retreat.

But then Steven grabs his wrist and pulls him close, kissing his masked lips. And on a low growl the Captain says, “ _ Ich liebe...auch.” _

~ Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> I will go down with this trash ship. X’D
> 
> Feedback makes the author blush and swoon, please consider telling me what you think!


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